


Descending

by gaensebluemchen



Category: Inkheart (2008), Tintenwelt-Trilogie | Inkheart Trilogy - Cornelia Funke
Genre: Gen, Ghosts, Nightmares, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-05
Updated: 2019-01-05
Packaged: 2019-10-04 23:44:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17314022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gaensebluemchen/pseuds/gaensebluemchen
Summary: Some things just won't stay buried. And sometimes, our own bad deeds come back to haunt us.





	Descending

He had not noticed the man at first. Basta was walking through a small yet crowded town at the coast, and did not pay any particular attention to his surroundings. The sun glared out of a cloudless sky, the air was hot and suffocating. People scuttled through the streets like ants, trying to get home and escape the heat.  
One man was not moving. He was standing perfectly motionless amidst the busy crowd. Something about him made Basta pause for a second. Something about this stranger made his stomach clench.  
Another pedestrian walked past, hiding the man from Basta's view.  
A moment passed, and the stranger was gone.  
Basta furrowed his brow, turned around and walked away. It was probably nothing. But the feeling of being watched did not leave as he continued on his way to his car. 

Basta did not sleep well that night. In his dreams, he was running, running, running. He could not see what was following him, but it was there, it would get him. He was too slow, his legs hurt, he was so exhausted, but he had to keep running, he had to. Basta stumbled, and fell, and woke up in a cold sweat. His heart was racing. Early sunlight fell through his window, and Basta started to calm down. It was a dream. He was alone. Basta cluched his amulet. He was safe.  
Basta almost believed his own reassurances. 

He was walking through the dilapidated village, alleys that he knew so well. It was a warm, quiet afternoon. Insects buzzed through the air. At the end of the narrow street, there was a man. He was just standing there and looked at Basta.  
Basta narrowed his eyes. He was too far away to recognize the stranger, but he was sure that he was not one of Capricorn's men. Basta drew his knife, and took a step forwards.  
The stranger turned around and disappeared into another sidestreet.  
Basta followed him, but when he reached the corner, the stranger was nowhere to be seen.  
Cautiously, Basta took a small step backwards, his right hand clasped tightly around his amulet. Something was wrong here.  
His mouth went dry as he realized what it was about that stranger that made his skin crawl.  
His clothes.  
He had not noticed it at first, too distracted by all the weird things people in this world wore, but the stranger's clothing was familiar.  
He was wearing clothes from his world. Basta's world.  
Basta shivered, and hurried to get back to the church. 

He was still nervous during dinner. He was surrounded by comforting light and the familiar laughter and talking of the other men, but Basta was still looking for any movements in the corners, still checking every face around him twice.  
But the man he was looking for was not there.  
Somehow, this did not relieve him as much as he had hoped it would. 

Basta locked his door twice this evening, made sure that no one would be able to enter his house.  
But he could not lock out the nightmares.  
He was running through the darkness again. Running. Running. Basta glanced over his shoulder and almost froze in terror.  
There were eyes. Cold, blank, unblinking eyes in the pitchblack darkness – and they were coming closer.  
Basta woke up with a jolt. 

The other men were talking about him. Basta knew that he looked tired, and that his hand twitched towards the handle of his knife whenever he heard the smallest noise, or saw something out of the corner of his eye. He knew that he kept looking behind him and that he was unusually quiet.  
Basta felt watched. He would turn around just to find no one behind him. He flinched whenever someone approached him from behind.  
A hand touched Basta's shoulder, and he almost jumped up from his seat.  
It was just Flatnose.  
"Hey, are you sleeping?" he asked, "I was talking to you!"  
"Yes, sorry," Basta said and stood up. He needed to get out of the church. He needed to get home.  
He opened the church door – and stood directly in front of the stranger.  
Just that now, the man was not a stranger anymore.  
It was his father.  
The first man he had ever killed.  
He had been dead for years now.  
Basta stumbled backwards, collided with a maid. Plates shattered on the floor. Basta turned around, saw the mess on the floor, the crouching woman, the many eyes fixed on them. When he looked back at the door, the ghost was gone. 

When Basta finally dared to go home, it was already dark. He could not see anyone in the streets, but he still ran until he reached his doorstep.  
He went to the bathroom, wanted to splash some cool water on his face. He looked into the mirror over the sink, and screamed. He had seen his father's face in the reflection.  
His father's face as it had been the last time he had seen him. With dead eyes, and a deep, bloody gash over his mouth and jaw.  
This night, Basta left the light on in his bedroom.  
He still ran through the darkness in his dream, followed by the silent footsteps of his father. An ice-cold hand grabbed him. Basta looked at the ghost and saw his own bloodied face.  
He woke up with a scream. 

He hurried through the narrow streets. It was early in the morning, half of the village was still asleep. Basta had to reach the church. He had to see other people. Living, breathing people.  
He turned around a corner, and came face to face with his father's ghost. He looked angry, but Basta could not remember his father ever not looking angry. His torn clothes had dark stains on them. Basta knew that it was blood. How many times had he brought down the knife that faraway day?  
The ghost closed in on him, Basta took a step backwards and suddenly felt a wall in his back.  
His knife could not help him; it went through the ghost as if he was trying to cut smoke.  
He grabbed his amulet, but it did not stop his father from wrapping his cold hands around his neck.  
Basta did not know whether it was the fingers around his throat, or the deadly cold that emanated from the ghost that made him struggle for breath. He tried to break free, tried to fight back, but hit nothing but air.  
The knife fell from his fingers.  
His vision started to turn black.  
The last thing he saw in this world were his father's dead eyes, but even as he was surrounded by nothing but darkness, he could still hear a faint laughter. 

It was Cockerell who found him slumped against a wall, his eyes still wide open. He kicked him in the side, and when the other man did not react at all, he realized that Basta was dead.  
He told the other men the news.  
"How did he die?" someone wanted to know.  
Cockerell shrugged.  
"I have no idea. Didn't find any wounds or something."  
He thought for a moment, before he continued.  
"Hmm... Lately he was a bit... you know. Maybe he died of fright!"  
He laughed at his own joke, and the other men laughed with him.

**Author's Note:**

> Based on the popular headcanon that Basta killed his own father.  
> As usual, I don't own anything.


End file.
